


Gift of the Light

by Ronney



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, Original Character(s), Scarlet Crusade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24615550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronney/pseuds/Ronney
Summary: Brief one-shot I wrote as a gift for a friend a few months back. Finally posting it somewhere. Their character's name is changed to protect the horny.
Relationships: Sally Whitemane/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 8





	Gift of the Light

The halls of the Scarlet Monastery were not unfamiliar to Catherine Mercer. She had frequented their passages ever since the displaced, terrified flight from Mereldar’s Rest, both as a neophyte and as an ordained priestess of the Crusade. In both stations she had found them to possess a different air, changing with her as she went from eager but skittish refugee to finding her place within the organization that had given her a home and, more importantly, a new purpose. But today the halls of the Monastery seemed to possess a different air entirely, one of tension that while not dangerous certainly seemed to draw tighter with every step towards the sanctuary. She was under escort, and though they were armed it was mere formality: few within the Crusade were unarmed at most times given the constant threat from the Scourge which surrounded them, particularly when their daily charge was none other than the High Inquisitor herself. This was the source of Catherine’s tension, truly, that High Inquisitor Whitemane had not only summoned her but had done so by name. She had been vying, pushing herself to further prove her devotion and ascend to the rank of Inquisitor, but she would have never dreamed to garner the notice of such devout and noble eyes.  
  
The sun shone overhead as they crossed the courtyard sprawling before the cathedral. The sounds of training filled the air as initiates swung away at training dummies and one another in tightly monitored drills, overseen by their instructors who were far from shy about raising their voice to correct poor form, or worse, a simple lack of dedication and effort. Catherine herself feels a twinge of judgment as her eyes catch sight of a recruit beginning to lose her form and energy, yet with the current hour the drills could have only been going a half hour since the recruits were dismissed from the mess hall. But she leaves her correction to those to whom it was charged, and turns her eyes forward on the cathedral looming before her and her escorts. As they approach the steps the monolithic cathedral doors swing forward with barely a whisper, their hinges so silent as to suggest they were willed open and shut by the Lady of the cathedral herself, suspended and moved by her whim. Catherine and her entourage of zealots enter the cavernous sanctuary, instantly greeted by the sound of prayers. The faithful were ever applying their diligence among the pews, some seated upon the nobly hewn oak with hands locked and heads bowed while others took to the floor before the seating and beside the ornate engravings lining the pews that described in ascending sequence the history and nobility of the Crusade, image by image, till halting before the carpeted steps that soared to the altar. There was no common feature among those showing their ardor, nothing that identified them save their dedication to the Crusade and the Holy Light. The Cathedral had no windows and was lit by an assortment of candles tactically arranged along walls and upon chandeliers overhead to deny deep shadows in points of easy access, casting it in a reverent reddish glow that befitted the motiff and the fervor of its occupants. Tapestries were suspended in the colors of the Crusade and bearing its emblems and deeds, rendering the light in further incarnadine depth till those unaccustomed to its glow may well find their vision feeling somewhat unkeeled within. It was far from her first time within the monastery walls and her eyes adjusted to its unique lighting rapidly, but the queer gravity of her reason for approaching the altar made everything somehow different, even tense as if she were a scrawny and starving refugee fleeing the encroachment of the Scourge all over again. The zealots lead her up the steps to the plain stone altar draped in a tattered shroud bearing the insignia of the Crusade, and she descends to her knees automatically, bowing her head to await the High Inquisitor’s pleasure as the zealots depart for other duties.  
  
Catherine was accustomed to long hours of silence and stillness, controlling and directing her thoughts without letting them grow unfocused or unruly. It ironically made such times far more bearable, and she had come to enjoy the hours of quiet devotion and meditation the Crusade required of her in her duties as they allowed her to listen for the Light, organize her own mind, and reflect on her service. This too is different as she awaits the coming of the High Inquisitor however, as without any explanation for her summons some part of her couldn’t help but squirm in dread at some sin of omission, some trespass committed in simple ignorance that had led to some domino effect and resulted in a grievance so terrible it must be addressed by her highest superior, a voice of the Light itself. Her rational, disciplined mind insists that such a notion was pure nonsense, but in the absence of another reason the niggling doubt couldn’t be entirely quieted. As such she finds herself more grateful than she had been in some time for the cessation of her quiet, thoughtful repose as the enormous doors across the altar begin to open portentously.  
  
A blast of scarlet daylight greets Catherine, casting High Inquisitor Sally Whitemane in blinding silhouette as she emerges from private chambers shared with the greatest of the Crusade’s fallen. The light radiated through stained glass windows overlooking the sarcophagi in which the honored dead rested, fired in the colors of the Crusade and granting an air of mortal solemnity to the sacred and cloistered space. She keeps her head bowed as the High Inquisitor approaches, resplendent in her striking vestments and chapeau, commanding her noble staff in which a single gem levitated and smoldered with the power of the Light so naturally at her fingertips. She is unhurried in her approach of the bowed priestess, her steps fluid and confident in a way that had made Catherine shudder when she found herself recollecting them at private, late night moments. She had never been so gauche as to do more than shudder, but the motion and image of the High Inquisitor lingered more often in Catherine’s mind than she cared to admit to herself. She finds it strangely difficult to keep entirely still as she hears the High Inquisitor come to a halt before her, languorously planting the pommel of her staff into the soft carpet that ensconced the altar with a soft impact that to Catherine seemed as loud as the brief surge of thunder of her own heart.  
  
“Catherine Mercer,” The High Inquisitor begins, her voice naturally steely and ironclad with an air of command; it made the hairs on the priestess’ neck stand up, her arms gooseflesh with a torrent of feelings too diverse to process and single out before she continued. “You are obviously under great apprehension to be summoned here before me today. Be at ease, I wish only to assess you for a higher calling within the Crusade. Rise, and follow me.” Whitemane turns to walk away, but the priestess is too dumbstruck to react for a moment, glad to be bowed to spare herself the embarrassment of Whitemane seeing her stupefied expression at the words she’d just heart. The High Inquisitor was assessing her? It’s only at the scratch of her stave’s pommel on the carpet, a likely deliberate gesture on the High Inquisitor’s part to snap her out of her disbelief, that she recovers herself enough to rise swiftly to her feet and hasten after Whitemane before she seal herself in her chamber once more. She can’t deny a sense of thrill, of many kinds of thrill, as they step inside and she hears the doors begin to ease shut behind them.  
  
Within the confines of this most sacred corner of the cathedral Catherine has only moments to take in her surroundings before Whitemane turns and regards her, her chapeau poised flawlessly on her head as she tilts it slightly in assessment of the priestess before her. She begins to pace around her guest, her movements fluid and confident without broaching swagger, almost catlike in their smoothness. Catherine feels strangely hot beneath the attention, but stands still with her head bowed as she waits for Whitemane to speak what’s on her mind.  
  
“Do you know what the Crusade’s most valuable asset is, Sister Mercer?” Whitemane asks from behind the priestess, lingering out of view at her hind.  
  
“You are, High Inquisitor.” She answers with an unexpected rise in her chest at the automatic, thoughtless speed with which the words came out of her mouth.  
  
Whitemane erupts into laughter, elegant and refined and musical all at once. Catherine’s features redden and her head sinks slightly as her shoulders droop, imagining a dismissal to follow the High Inquisitor’s amusement. But to her surprise she feels a gloved hand rest on her head, stroking through her hair a moment before it settles into almost a light grip.  
  
“Not the answer I expected, but an acceptable one. It’s loyalty, Sister Mercer. Loyalty to the cause, to the Light...and even loyalty to myself, as in your case.” A low chuckle escapes Whitemane’s lips as her hand withdraws and she begins to slowly pace around to the priestess’ front.  
  
“I understand that you have been vying for the position of Inquisitor.”  
  
“Yes, Hi-”  
  
“I am not finished, Sister Mercer. Be quiet until I tell you to speak.” The remonstration is as automatic as her own blurted answer, but far more smooth and natural, the extension of her authority as natural to the High Inquisitor as drawing breath.  
  
“I also understand that you are freshly returned from a foray into the Plaguelands, during which you encountered the shambling corpses of your parents--which you dispatched yourself. An act of dedication which few in the Crusade to claim to match.” Her voice adopts a faint and savage excitement as she recounts Catherine’s ending of her undead parents, while the priestess herself remains silent.  
  
“I wished to see you myself before making a decision, but I shall extend to you an offer: accept the Gift of the Light, and serve as my personal attendant and devotee. You will always be at my side or my beck and call, making certain my whims are met and the will of the Crusade is realized upon the face of Azeroth.”  
  
Catherine couldn’t speak. She almost couldn’t stand. Such an opportunity was beyond anything she could have ever considered ever really happening. Certainly she had pined for Whitemane’s attention from afar, but she knew many of her fellows did and all equally knew it was just that, fated to be no more for her dedication to the Crusade and the will of the Light. But now she was being offered years, perhaps a lifetime at the High Inquisitor’s side.  
  
“Yes!” She blurted out immediately. But this time the High Inquisitor did not laugh. Instead she simply smiled a cat-like smile, placing the pommel of her staff upon the ground where it remained perfectly upright as she released it, and extended a hand towards Catherine.  
  
“Them come, Sister Mercer. We shall venture further into the cathedral to properly induct you into my service.”  
  
Catherine hesitates a moment and the High Inquisitor’s smile broadens by a twitch, and she withdraws her hand as she turns and approaches one of several large candles positioned between the sarcophagi and maneuvers her hand across its surface, causing a series of large square tiles in the center of the room’s floor to begin sliding back exposing a descending spiral staircase. The steps were steep and the angle was tight, but Whitemane approaches and begins to descend it comfortably. Catherine feels herself torn, immobilized once more by disbelief before she catches a spellbinding glance from the High Inquisitor’s red eyes as she disappears down the stairwell. Rather than arrest her in place this breaks her suspension, and the priestess hurries towards the stairs to begin making her way down them with considerably less grace than the High Inquisitor herself. The winding stairwell opens into a single chamber lit by a broad scattering of candles, shelves along the walls stuffed with sticks of wax strangely regal and absent of any run or melting despite the flames burning away at their wicks. A pair of dressers hugged one wall, while a series of book shelves were divided along the other by candle-laden shelves. A large, low bed adorned with scarlet sheets lay at the room’s far end beneath another tapestry bearing the insignia of the Crusade. Before it stood the High Inquisitor with regal, dignified poise, a slight raise of her chin indicating her expectation of the priestess to approach that they may continue; Catherine hurried over head bowed and heart racing, swept away in the unexpected and steadily escalating turn of events.  
  
As she kneels before the High Inquisitor she feels a gloved hand frame her chin, drawing her gaze up to behold the face that had often tormented her during late nights and moments of weakness, yet had simultaneously compelled her to abstain from yielding to temptation when she forced herself to imagine it contorted with disappointment and rejection at her forsaking something so sacred as her vows.  
  
“Catherine Mercer,” Sally Whitemane begins in a voice as quiet and lethal as a serpent, “Do you surrender yourself to my service in the name of the Holy Light, forsaking all other identity and obligation till such time as your duty is fulfilled?”  
  
“Yes, High Inquisitor,” Catherine murmured, practically spellbound by the powerful yet comely features arresting her gaze.  
  
“Excellent.” Whitemane says before releasing the woman’s chin, her hand sliding across the priestess’ temple, palming around her cranium. “Then relax, and surrender.”  
  
A glow begins to radiate from beneath the High Inquisitor’s palm, a warm and radiant golden light that Catherine feels first against her skin, then filtering through and into her body. At first it is a familiar sensation, one she was well acquainted with as a priestess and aspiring inquisitor. She feels the light calm and relax her, ease away the aches and injuries of her excursion, drown the emotional scars that putting down her own Scourged parents had re-opened and left newly raw in spite of her conviction. She basks in a sensation not dissimilar to lying back in a hot bath, letting the water take her to just shy of her face as her form basks in its healing embrace.  
  
And then Whitemane pushes her entirely under.  
  
The glow beneath the High Inquisitor’s palm intensifies and brightens, and the warmth in Catherine’s body begins to intensify, becoming not painful but still far more pronouned than she was accustomed to. Her eyes, reverently shut to receive her High Inquisitor’s gift, open in uncertain confusion, then widen as she feels the warmth centering in her skull and things leaving her. A radiance is cast upon her memories, her perception, her very image of herself, bathing much in an opaque and obfuscating glow that all but erases much of what had compelled her to the Crusade in the first place. There is an instant of fear, and then that instant is gone as a blissful calm settles over her face. Catherine’s mouth begins to hang as she pants, her body reacting to the supernatural warmth filling it as if it were a mortal heat that needed cooling; Whitemane smirks and places the tips of two gloved fingers on the surrendering priestess’ tongue as it lolls out like a dog’s.  
  
“Just like that, Sister Mercer.” She laughs both musically and cruel to herself. “Well, that’s no longer accurate, is it? You’re The Devotee, now. But ultimately, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”  
  
Catherine shudders as she feels her thoughts cloud and blur beneath the blinding incandescence filling them, complex feelings and abstract concepts beginning to grow too challenging for her to hold onto, but as much of her intellect leaves her she feels a parting sense that the High Inquisitor was correct: in the end, this was what she wanted. She moans out dumbly against the fingers pinning her tongue, effecting a nod as her eyes water reflexively from the exertion coursing through her brain as the Holy Light shapes her into Whitemane’s perfect Devotee. The changes begin to influence her elsewhere, and the sound of ripping briefly groans through the lowly lit room as her robes tear in the chest and seat, not quite open but certainly upsetting some network of thread in their weaving. Her eyes glass as peace settles over them, a bliss for which Catherine Mercer had always craved but had never found, but was now the eternal privilege of the Devotee that had replaced her.  
  
Whitemane spends a few more moments shaping her new pet before she removes her hand, the glow fading as she steps back to admire her handiwork. What she sees draws a cruelly amused smile to her face, and the High Inquisitor can’t help but laugh in delighted satisfaction at the panting, expanded mess of a woman now clawing at her own robes on the ground before her.  
  
“Careful, girl, you’ll hurt yourself. We’ll get this off you. On your feet.”  
  
The Devotee rises to her feet clumsily, her eyes bleary and struggling to focus as her simplified brain struggles to adjust to its reduced capacity.  
  
“Yes, High Inquisitor.” She remembers to say after she’s on her feet, yet the tardiness doesn’t seem to occur to her.  
  
“My, you seem to have taken to that quite like no other.” Whitemane says as she reaches up to cup one of her pet’s enlarged breasts. Catherine Mercer had possessed a figure somewhat above average, but the toy before her now was built like a prize whore at a high class brothel. Whitemane squeezes the tit in her palm, raising and lowering it to feel the support and heft before running a thumb along the protuberance of an erect nipple. The Devotee moans, her thighs turning inwards as a hand drops to her lower abdomen, stopping short of going lower.  
  
“Ohh, you’ve taken to that exceptionally, as well. You’re the first I haven’t had to strike to correct them. A prize toy, to be sure.” Whitemane gives her pet’s breast another squeeze before releasing it, then extending an open palm towards her. Rather than a blast of light, it’s but a simple grasp and rip of the already compromised robes that follows, tearing the garment clear off the Devotee’s body to expose the straining undergarments beneath: breasts spilling out of a bra that likely had at least one popped hook, and panties already ripping their band over one of her plumpened hips.  
  
“Hands behind your back.” Whitemane instructs to prompt obedience, her compliant toy’s enlarged breasts rising and falling rapidly in their uncomfortably undersized bra as her body shifts from warmed by the light to warmed by her own enhanced libido. Rather than clasping her palms together the Devotee crosses her wrists at the small of her back, that if her High Inquisitor so chooses she may restrain them there. Whitemane runs a hand up her crotch instead, feeling the wet, pillowy folds beneath the straining underwear; a dark spot had already started when she’d torn off the robe but now expanded rapidly as her fingers move up and down eliciting shivers and whimpers from her pent up pet. Her middle finger slides between the woman’s lips soaking the lilac fabric of her panties while teasing her entrance and clit, flirting close to either but never quite reaching, and her ring and index fingers brush the lips themselves further teasing without offering any true satisfaction.  
  
“Would you come if I kept doing this, Devotee?” She asks, her eyes narrowed eagerly.  
  
“O-only with per...permission, High Inquisitor.” Her plaything’s eyes shift in focus as she struggles with one word, seems to struggle with speaking in general, but the appropriate title leaves her lips easily enough. Whitemane laughs once more, her hand suddenly swinging around to loudly slap her toy on the ass, the impact sharp and the sound of the blow and the Devotee’s excited, appreciative moan both filling the space of her private chamber. Whitemane’s eyes fill with hunger and she grabs the woman by the hair, and drags her over to the bed, much to the verbal approval of her toy if her whimpers and moans are any indication.  
  
Whitemane seats herself first, residing on the edge with her legs apart, but instead of forcing the blessed ruin of Catherine Mercer down between her thighs she pulls her down upon one of them, the woman’s excited sex pressed tight against one of the High Inquisitor’s soft, shapely thighs while the grip on her hair is retained. The Devotee moans at the friction, her hips and thighs twitching with an unexpressed need to grind, but she restrains herself for now.  
  
“Yes, excellent.” Whitemane praises with another hard slap to the woman’s fat, quivering backside causing her spine to arch violently in exultation, her breasts thrust into the High Inquisitor’s face. “Very obedient, very understanding of your place. You divine the will of the Light well, my Devotee.”  
  
“Th-thank you...High Inquisitor,” the Devotee responds through a needy whine.  
  
They sit there in silence for some moments, Whitemane just slightly adjusting her leg on the ball of her foot to tease and torture her new pet, drinking in the expressions shifting across her face as her body cries out to her for release but her will remains bound to service, a life of aimless hunger for someone to dedicate herself to at last realized--Catherine Mercer may no longer exist, but with every moment Whitemane’s conviction that this was the natural course of her destiny became even more resolute.  
“Slowly.” Whitemane bids her at last, and to her satisfaction her toy performs just as instructed. Those wide, grabbable hips begin to shift ponderously, the Devotee’s bare waist undulating as her groin drags back and forth across a pale thigh. Her face pinches and grimaces in pleasure as she wrestles with the compulsion to moan out her bliss and the knowledge that she hadn’t been given permission. Whitemane peers into her cloudy, simplified eyes and derives her own pleasure from the dedication and almost idiot fervor she sees in them.  
  
The Devotee angles her hips to ride the High Inquisitor’s thigh efficiently and slowly, grinding her clit down against that soft, supple porcelain flesh while pacing her movements to exaggerate every fetching bend and twist of her soft, pleasing stomach. Prior to her surrender her Inquisitor training had stripped away most all fat, but now it was just barely touched up, enough flesh returned to allow the High Inquisitor to take a small handful if it pleased her. Whitemane squeezes at her backside, relishing in the handfuls of beckoning, womanly flesh at her disposal as her latest acolyte whines and grinds away on her leg.  
  
“Faster.” She instructs with another hard slap, her eyes gleaming as she watches those expressions become more strained and needy with the quickening pace. The fabric of her straining panties begins to squelch quietly as it soaks through with her excitement, rubbing fervently against the High Inquisitor’s leg. The Devotee shudders and shifts, angling her clit needily while struggling to maintain her balance hands-free amidst the self-gratification she was compelled towards, a task made at times easier and at times more difficult by Whitemane’s ever-eagerly groping hand. She whimpers and a jolt courses through her whole body, shoulders fidgeting as she almost comes to a stop but then continues.  
  
“Are you close?” Whitemane asks.  
  
“Y-yes, High Inquisitor.” The Devotee responds.  
  
“Do you believe you deserve to come before me, Devotee?”  
  
“N-no, High Inquisitor.” she responds with another treacherous shudder.  
  
Whitemane is silent some moments, watching her plaything’s breasts and belly shift as she grinds against her newly-beloved Mistress, then the shift of her underwear and the folds they pinched between as she ground desperately forward.  
  
“You are correct, my Devotee.” She finally says. “However, the Light is not without mercy; I am not without mercy. If you accept punishment you may work yourself to release.”  
  
“Th-thank you, High Inquisitor!” The doe-eyed Devotee moans out before her hips begin to shake in earnest, the near-rabid shift and heft of her body causing her underwear to give out as its waistband rips entirely, dangling down Whiteman’s leg useless as its wearer thrusts away careless to its ruination, focused solely on reaching her peak. It only takes moments of wanton, shamelessly bucking for the Devotee to to begin shuddering and moaning out, her spine bowing like a bowstring as everything in her core tightens and seizes up with orgasm. Her eyes roll and she feels a last semblance of her former self dissipate into the light that now consumed much of her self-awareness, a last bastion gladly traded for the pleasure of her flesh, but even more so for the pleasure of dedication to the Light’s Chosen. She soaks the High Inquisitor’s thigh with her fluids as everything inside her contracts, a discharge of her wanting that trickles down either side of Whitemane’s immaculate limb and puddles onto the ground as Catherine Mercer fades into nothingness entirely in a disorienting haze of pure ecstasy.  
  
When her orgasm subsides Whitemane grabs the newly remade woman by the hair and yanks her down close, arresting her in a brief and domineering kiss she’s too fatigued to do more than feebly swipe her tongue into. It only lasts moments before she’s tugged off her mistress’ thigh and shoved face first into the spot she’d left on her skin. The Devotee doesn’t hesitate to begin licking at the mess her only thoughts a wish that it was Whitemane she was tasting rather than herself. Her eyes close in rapture at the task given, indulging in such use all the same, and she doesn’t hesitate or resist when her face is thrust towards the ground. Whitemane stops short of having her clean the floor however, and instead tugs her back, throwing her onto the bed with her crossed arms pinned beneath her. She does not need to issue a command for her plaything to stay still, she inherently understands it is desired of her and thus stares up at the ceiling while waiting for her High Inquisitor to undress. Whitemane denudes herself unhurriedly, beginning with her Chapeau and languorous with every subsequent piece of clothing till her anointed figure is entirely uncovered; her Devotee can hear every whisper of fabric slipping across her mistress’ skin, compelling a slight lapse in her disciplined subservience as her tongue slides across her lips a single time.  
  
Suddenly Whitemane’s hips are descending upon her face, and she has time only for a quick glimpse of her perfect hind quarters before they land on her features, blocking out light and smothering her breath. An instinctive, biological part of her effects the briefest squirming before growing still, but even during that the Devotee is dutifully licking and tongueing at her High Inquisitor’s sex, parting the folds and rubbing at her entrance with her tongue tip before dragging it up to her clit; a slight readjustment allows her to breathe through her mouth as she works at the High Inquisitor’s clit, but her face is eclipsed entirely by Whitemane’s full, porcelain pale moon.  
  
She couldn’t imagine ever being so content in her life.  
  
The Devotee takes sparing breaths through her mouth as her tongue laps ravenously at her mistress’ stiff, aching little pearl, her toes squirming and thighs shifting as she feels hands rubbing at her breasts, coaxing them out of her snapped bra and moulding them through slender, clever fingers. She squeals at pinches to her nipples, shudders at nails sliding across her stomach, and continues to press her face up into Sally Whitemane’s underside to provide the maximum reach and precision in tending to her needs. The High Inquisitor herself remains comparatively composed and dignified throughout her tending, not even betraying a twitch or unintended moan or whimper as her pet pleases her from beneath. Her hips shift with her whims, her weight keeping her Devotee pressed flat to the mattress to the simple creature’s utter, blissful delight. She begins to roll and ride, slowly working herself against her toy’s tongue, brushing her entrance against her chin leaving the trapped woman to chase her prize blindly, but this simply added to the thrill for the domineering symbol of piety as she felt the struggles to keep her satisfied. Her backside shifts and wiggles over the Devotee’s face, its smothering providing her no end of delight in finally being so intimate with the object of her affection, obsession, since joining the Crusade.  
  
Whitemane shifts her weight again, this time forward, and her broad, pleasing hips now settle wholly over the woman’s face, causing her body to seize up in surprise for just an instant as she tries and fails so tuck in a breath of air. She rests undisturbed beneath the slight, reflexive shifts as her plaything struggles against the instinctive urge, escalating into a self-preserving need to draw breath, muscles denied fresh oxygen beginning to twitch and spasm. Just as she feels the squirming begin to reach a fever pitch she shifts, uncovering the woman’s mouth and smirking with a moan as she feels a tongue return to her clit amidst the desperate breath of air sucked in. She indulges this pleasure some moments before moving again, sealing off the Devotee’s air again and resting in this obstructive position till she feels once more the twitches and spasms of desperation build up. Whitemane frees her mouth once more, and immediately feels the fumbling return of the dizzied woman’s tongue to her clit. The High Inquisitor bites her lip, then drops her hips, angling them forward to direct her clit into the attention.  
  
Whitemane aggressively rides the Devotee’s tongue towards her orgasm, sinking her hands into the woman’s stomach for ballast as her hips shift back and forth powerfully but without great hurry, her grip tightening at her sadistic pleasure to dig nails into the flesh and earning a grateful moan at the attention each time. She arches her spine, interrupts her cat-like clawing to grope at her own breast and smooth a hand down on her front, indulges her own sensation however strikes her fancy with all the aloof confidence of a cat with cornered prey. When her orgasm begins to wash over her she rocks her hips back, drinking in one last swipe of the Devotee’s tongue before her pelvis drops over her face once more, and she grinds against her chin to coax out the rest of her pleasure.  
  
Both women shudder and buck and trash, Whiteman with the muted dignity of her station and the woman beneath her with an instinctive scrabbling for air as her breath is denied by two large, beckoning cheeks and the thighs attached. The High Inquisitor feels a particularly rigid jerk beneath her before a last desperate snort against her skin followed by stillness signifies the woman had gone unconscious, and this knowledge pushes her through her peak, her contractions and the accompanying sensations magnified by this last act of dominant sadism--or, almost last. Her fluids splash generously across her Devotee’s face, running into her own and the sheets beneath, but Whitemane does not linger upon her face in afterglow, instead climbing off onto her knees alongside the unconscious woman.  
  
“A most excellent initiation, my Devotee. This life seems to suit you well. Rest assured the Light shan’t leave you waiting long to be called upon. But for now, sleep.”

=====================================================================

It had been an uneventful day for Sally Whitemane. The Crusade was largely in preparation, maintaining its holdings while drawing in and training recruits, proselytizing to build the ranks of its faithful. She had largely spent her time making appearances, being visible for the new recruits alongside Mograine, blessing Herod’s latest projects as they ascended his brutal training to further their service. Important work, but ultimately dull. Were it not for her Devotee, even the High Inquisitor might succumb to monotony as the days crawl by till the Crusade can make its next lethal thrust through the ranks of the Scourge, drawing ever closer to their destiny of purification and reclamation.  
As she enters the Cathedral, leaving behind an energized, cheering crowd in the courtyard, she sees the object of her interest dutifully in position before the altar. The Devotee knelt beneath an obfuscating shroud, the snowy and crimson fabric covering her from sight entirely beneath the insignia of the Scarlet Crusade. She was not allowed to move from the spot where Whitemane left her, wherever it may be, and could not see to move elsewhere without removing the shroud and exposing herself. Whitemane was unsurprised to see her knelt dutifully in prayer where she had been left that morning, but it was pleasing all the same.  
  
As she approaches she hears the familiar quiet and clumsy murmurings of her prayers, unsteady and shifting in their rapidity as the woman struggled with words, struggled to hammer the ardor in her heart and her mind into something coherent, but The Light would hear her fervor and would know. These prayers come to a halt as the High Inquisitor rests a hand on her head, and her Devotee rises to her feet, her fingers molding through the shroud to grasp Whitemane’s wrist before the doors to the Chamber of Fallen swing open to allow them both to indulge in the Gift of the Light.


End file.
